


truth be told

by mandadoration



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, I literally do not know how to tag this, Love Confessions, Technically..., it's literally fluff and dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24096655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandadoration/pseuds/mandadoration
Summary: Jack invites you to the annual Statesman Gala as his plus one, and puppy-dog eyes his way into convincing you to come with him despite the fact you hated formal affairs. At the end of the night, a confession comes out.
Relationships: Jack | Whiskey/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 71





	truth be told

Statesman holds a gala every year. It was a multipurpose affair-- people would be invited to have fun and relax, but also negotiate a variety of business deals, ranging from different woods for the casks used to age Statesman liquor to very lucrative, high tech “can’t get anywhere else, at least  _ legally _ ” weaponry. The conversations that happened within whatever venue the gala was at meant that there were too many security risks and high-profile people to be casual about the way the event was run. There was added security on top of the already-high tier agents that were already attending. Full-coverage surveillance and a short debriefing sent to all agents, attending or not, and even before the actual event, Statesman surveyed and staked-out the location to analyze for weak points or anything that could prove an issue, really. 

Beyond all the semantics, it was an extremely lavish, nearly outlandish event. It wasn’t like Statesman didn’t hold parties, but this was a special event compared to the fun shindigs. The best caterers, the best orchestra, the best decorators-- the event was made to impress, after all. Even the best location-- changed every year on a rotation of 11 different locations. They couldn’t have them leave their guests wanting. The gala was made for fun, yes, but fun and  _ business _ .

Those attending were also allowed to bring a plus one. 

After a background check and a screening, of course. 

When he hears the news, Jack’s mind immediately goes to inviting you. There’s almost no question about it. You two have been dating for a little bit, him taking you on sweet, romantic dates that leave you thinking about it for hours, even more so when you glance at the flowers he hands you at the beginning of the night on your counter. Jack, meanwhile, savors the goodnight kisses as he walks you to your door. Lord knows he talks about it enough at work, gushing about you as soon as some naive soul asks what he’s been up to or what he was planning to do. It’s gone to the point that his fellow agents have learned to be careful about what they ask him, lest he goes on a rant about some quirk he found endearing. But someone always slips and asks about him. 

If not talking, then it shows on his face as he practically floats throughout the work day. 

So yeah, asking you to be his plus one to the gala was an easy decision to make. 

The problem was that the fanciest your dates have been was to a diner, but that was because it was _themed._ Not just any plain ol’ theme, but for the 50s because Jack is just _like that_. It wasn’t the case that you both didn’t care about looking nice or wanting to go somewhere expensive, no. It was just that it was comfort and utility over… everything. Jack wanted to be comfortable for mobility, flexibility, and the ability to hide weapons under his clothes in case the moment appeared. You had inferred as such when Jack would constantly complain that his jackets didn’t have nearly enough discreet, inside pockets. 

You weren’t complaining about his priorities when it came to dress. Even before Jack had told you what his job entailed, you liked that he wasn’t the one for big, expensive acts of love. You were perfectly fine in your t-shirt and jeans, thank you very much. And honestly speaking, the problem didn’t lie in the clothes; it was the rules applied to them, or the rules applied to the scenario that required that kind of dress. There were too many rules, and even if you followed them to a “T”, someone would find something wrong with it, always something to nitpick at. 

So when Jack brought the idea up to you during the winding down hours of another stay-in movie date, of course you were a little reluctant. The Statesman Gala had all the things that you hated about stuffy occasions, and on top of that, it was for work.  _ His  _ work. The work that just happened to be a super secret spy agency that dealt with goddamn  _ royalty  _ from time to time. 

That kind of shit tends to put pressure on the common folk.

“I’m not saying I don’t… want to go,” you say slowly, fiddling with the hem of your shirt as you lean against the side of your couch, looking away at where Jack sits on the other end. You didn’t really understand why your heart was pounding so much. You know in your heart that Jack wouldn’t get mad at you in the events you really didn’t want to go with him. “I’m just saying, you know, I-I wouldn’t want to, um, embarrass you or something.”

“Sweetheart, you couldn’t embarrass me, even if you wanted to,” Jack soothes, reaching over to put a warm hand over yours. When you turn your hand over, palm facing up to lace your fingers against his, you let him pull you towards him until you sit right next to him, leg pressed against his. He gives you a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be with you all evening, too.” You nibble on your bottom lip, staring at where your hands are intertwined. 

“Who’s gonna be there?” you ask him, voice soft as the t.v. plays some commercials in between the movie you were half-watching.

“Besides the people from work?” Jack asks, humming. You knew his coworkers on some base level, but you were sure they knew more about you than you knew about them with how much Jack talked about you. “Some potential business partners, other people’s plus ones… I don’t really pay attention, to be quite honest, baby.” You laugh a little, glancing up at him in the low, warm light. The light from the t.v. throws shadows across his face, sharpening his features, but his eyes remain soft, just for you. You know what his job entails, you know what he’s gone through, and yet you will always be in awe of the tenderness that lies in the core of his character. 

Jack gently lifts up your chin to look at him properly with two fingers. “Baby,” he says, voice warm and steady, “if you really don’t want to go, it’s okay. I won’t be upset.” You sigh with content, and lean a little more forward to rest more of your weight in his hands. 

“I told you,” you murmur, “It’s not that I don’t  _ want  _ to go. I’m just worried.” 

“Listen, sugar, if it’s a party, no matter how many people with sticks up their asses are going, if Tequila is there, there’s no way you can be the biggest fool there,” Jack snorts. He slides his hand up until he cups your face, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the apples of your cheeks. “I’m being honest to God!” he says, laughing when you give him an incredulous look. “He never fails to pull some stupid shit. We have a betting pool going, I’ll have you know. You know, last year he brought out the good shit from reserves and--”

“Okay! I get it!” you say in fake, exaggerated exasperation. “When is it, and what’s the dress code?” you ask. Jack brightens and tilts his head like a puppy, the hand on your cheek dropping down to hold both of your hands. 

“Saturday evening, black tie!” he says, a little too excitedly. “But Champ said that it was okay to be a little more casual,” he quickly adds when your face starts to sour. You sigh and run your fingers through his hair before booping his nose, relaxing back against the cushions with one of your hands still intertwined with his. The commercial had ended, and suppose you should actually watch the second half of the movie. 

“Don’t make me regret it.”

\---

Jack rings your doorbell, checking the bouquet of flowers one last time, making sure that every last petal was in place. When you don’t answer, he knocks on the door. 

You text him a response. 

_ Come in just doing some last minute things :) _

Jack finds that your door is unlocked, presumably because you knew he was coming, but he was still going to chide about it to you later. Even if you didn’t know him or was just simply associated with him, leaving your door unlocked for any stranger to just stroll right in was plain dangerous. “Hey, sweetheart!” Jack says, closing the door behind him with his foot, once against messing with the arrangement until it was perfect. Which… just meant messing with it a little before putting it back the way it was before he touched it.

“I’m getting ready!” you yell, voice muffled from where you’re probably doing one last check of yourself in your room. “Make yourself at home-- I’ll be down soon!” Jack goes to lean on the railing of the stairs, looking around your house, even though he’s been here plenty of times before. 

“Baby, I’m sure you look great,” Jack calls up the stairs, taking a moment to glance anxiously at his watch, then flicking his eyes to the mirror that is hung up in your hallway. Although Champ had made it clear it was a black tie affair, he said it with the weariness that said that he knew his agents would find some way to wiggle in some Southern flair. Jack’s “Southern flair” came in the form of a cream-colored Stetson and a braided leather belt with a big, shiny belt buckle. Not the one with the flask on the buckle, unfortunately. You had explicitly told him that if you saw him with that on, you would immediately go back upstairs and get undressed and ready for bed without a second thought. “You done yet? No rush!”

“I’m almost done!” you respond. Jack sighs, but it’s more out of fondness than exasperation. 

Honestly, if he could have it, he would much rather spend a night in with you, indulging himself with junk food and your pleasant company, have you nice and tucked into his side as he watches movie after movie with you, sneaking his hand up your leg under the blankets where you’re cozied up with him until you say something or touch him back, playing this game until the movie is long forgotten, and you’re under him--

Jack gets a text from Ginger. 

_ Don’t be late this time. _

At least he gets to spend time with you on company time. 

Jack perks up at the sound of your door opening, and he starts to wonder if he’s in some sort of movie or romance novel because he swears his heart stops when he sees you. 

Your cocktail dress is an elegant, sleek one, and all black. The main bodice is opaque and form fitting, ending below your knee, a deep V in the front revealing your cleavage, and the sheer portion on top covers your arms and shoulders. His eyes get drawn to the skin of your leg peeping out of the slit in the side of the dress with each step you take. Your makeup has been done to darken your eyes and sharpen them, painted lips pulled back into a smile as your natural blush starts to peek through as you equally drink the sight of him waiting at the foot of the stairs. 

He doesn’t even notice when you gingerly take the bouquet out of his hands, admiring them and smelling them. “These are beautiful, Jack,” you say in wonder, as if every time he brought you them it was the first time he did so. His eyes trail after your figure as you go to the kitchen to replace the wilting flowers sitting on your counter, changing out the water and arranging the bouquet to your liking, leaving Jack wondering why he didn’t think of  _ that  _ particular arrangement. You walk back to stand in front of him after grabbing your purse, giving him a concerned look. 

Jack realizes he hasn’t said anything when you start to shift nervously, rocking back and forth on your heels as a blush creeps up your neck. “Sorry, darling,” he sighs, looking down at his feet as he puts his hands on his hips, slowly walking up to you until your heels come into his field of vision. “I don’t think I wanna go anymore.” He looks up, sees the furrow in your brows, the frown pulling at your lips; then, he reaches forward, grabbing your hips and pulling you close to him, kissing the tip of your nose. “I’d much rather stay here and rip your dress off--” 

You scowl at him, leaning away and pushing his face to cut off his sentence. “This dress was expensive,” you complain, trying, but not really, to get away from him, squirming in his hold. “If you’re gonna take it off of me, take it off carefully.”

“But what if I promise to buy you a dress to replace it?” Jack jokes, pulling you tighter against his, nuzzling into your neck, reaching one hand up to stop his hat from falling off of his head. “A hundred dresses or a million, even, if you let me rip it off of you.” You giggle, his mustache tickling your skin, wedging your hands between you two to push against his chest. 

“I just might consider,” you say, “but I got ready and everything. Let’s go to the party, okay? Then, you may present me with your case.” Jack pouts and pulls away, but manages to sneak one more kiss, this time, against your lips when he takes a step back, he gives you a confused look when you bust out laughing. 

“What is it?” he asks. You manage to fan the tears away from your eyes, determined not to mess up your makeup. Shaking your head, you go towards the door, picking up your heels before sitting on the sofa to strap them on. “What?” You just laugh one more time, picking up your purse and heading to the door. You turn to him in the doorway, and point at your own painted lips. 

“It’s a nice color on you.”

You laugh your way out of the door and into the car as Jack tries to scrub off your lipstick marks off his lips in the hallway mirror. 

\---

The drive is relatively uneventful. You just stare out the window, pointing something out to him every now and then, or asking a question about the event. Jack answers them all dutifully and without judgement, always reassuring you that he’ll stay with you the entire night, and that you have nothing to worry about. 

He starts telling you another story about Tequila, Club Soda, and several bottles of Jagermeister that you have to beg him to stop because you were another sentence away from cry-laughing and ruining the makeup you spent a good hour or so on. 

Your nervousness comes back when a valet takes the car from Jack, only a little offset by the fact he practically runs to the other side of the car to open the door for you, taking off his hat and sweeping into a low bow dramatically. Your ears burn hot when you catch the valet trying to hide their amused smile, mumbling something about young love as if you two were in your teens, and you swear they’re laughing as they drive away Jack’s car because he immediately goes to hold his arm out for you to take. 

“Such a gentleman,” you tease, but instead of him looking sheepish or embarrassed, he preens at your comment, chest puffing out in pride. 

“Why yes, baby, I am.”

He holds the door to the building open for you as well, and the first thing you see when you walk in is the wonderfully decorated entrance to the ballroom. Someone takes your purse for you, and Jack pockets the ticket somewhere within his suit jacket, exchanging brief pleasantries.

The second thing you see is Ginger trying to dissuade Tequila from spiking the punch bowl. “You cannot do that. What is this, high school? We have some potential clients and--”

“And I’m just tryna help it along by giving them a little edge. Wouldn’t it be easier to strike deals if they had a little sample of Statesman liquor?”

“I mean, yes, technically, you are correct. Does  _ not  _ make it right to--”

“Even  _ you’re  _ saying I’m right! C’mon, just a little bit--”

Ginger calls your and Jack’s name with relief, tugging Tequila along away from the food table to greet you. He rolls his eyes, but tucks the flask away. He lets out a low whistle when his eyes settle on you. 

“You’re looking fine, if you don’t mind me saying,” Tequila says, eyeing you up and down appreciatively, ignoring the look Ginger gives him. 

“She’s my date, not yours,” Jack says to him hotly, wrapping an arm around your waist as he eyes Tequila, who laughs, backing up and holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Just paying your lady a compliment, Whiskey, no need for the hostilities,” he says. You laugh too, rolling your eyes and giving Jack a soothing pat on the arm. This was just Tequila trying to get Jack riled up, you knew. As much of the ‘resident bad boy’ he was, Tequila knew and respected boundaries, as much as he liked to toe the line. 

Ginger gives Tequila another look, and you spot Vermouth, one of the medics, give him an incredulous look as he passes by your group, making brief eye contact with Ginger before scurrying away to the food table, quickly loading his plate with snacks before going back and joining the rest of his medical team. 

“Thank you for the compliment,” you say pleasantly. “You guys look great, too.” The two beam at you, despite the way Jack narrows his eyes for a brief moment before relaxing. Someone further in the ballroom calls Jack’s name, so with one last smile, you walk over to a new group of people with him. 

You flit around group to group throughout the night, and true to Jack’s word, he never leaves your side for a minute. Despite it being a Statesman-sponsored event, you do most of the talking, slipping easily into conversations and pulling laughs out of the crowd, and he’s pretty sure at some point between staring at how your eyes glisten in the lowlight and catching a whiff of your perfume that you’ve managed to secure a business agreement for chemical explosives without you even really realizing it.

You soon lead him to the table pressed against the wall next to the entrance, laden with a multitude of drinks and finger foods-- very, very different from the cheap, microwavable popcorn you both took guilty pleasure in. Unsurprisingly, both of you reach for a flute of champagne before anything else. 

You take a sip of it at the table, blinking a little at the bubbliness of the drink, when you suddenly pause, making Jack look at you questioningly. “Do you dance?” you ask him, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

“Of course, darlin’, why’d you ask?” You shrug, and you mess with the cuff of your dress, careful not to spill any of your drink. 

“Just wondering,” you answer. Jack tilts his head. 

“You wanna dance?” he asks. You blush and look away for a brief moment, instead choosing to look at the dance floor where a few pairs were swaying to the soft orchestral music. 

“Maybe later,” you answer, and as you say it, your face softens, trailing after a couple who sweeps by you on the dancefloor. 

There’s only a brief hesitation from Jack before he makes up his mind. “C’mon,” he says, taking the glass from your hand and putting it on a nearby table. 

“Huh?”

“C’mon,” he repeats. 

“Jack--!”

Despite the dance being in the middle of the song, Jack weaves his way through the crowd until he finds a space, pulling you close. “Jack, I don’t know how to dance,” you hiss, eyes darting around to watch the other couples. He shrugs. 

“Neither do I.” You give him a critical look that he understands immediately without you having to say a peep. “I never said I danced  _ well _ .” The two of you immediately go to follow the body language of the other around you. Your arms are a welcome weight around his shoulders, eyes bright and reflecting the numerous lights strung up around the ballroom. Jack’s hands sit naturally at your waist, fitting so perfectly that it makes him wonder why he didn’t do something like this before. Sure, you and him dance in the living room sometimes, but that was more like goofing around, barely hanging on to a single ounce of seriousness. 

Truth be told, the moment you make eye contact with him, body as close as you can get without being improper for such a fancy event, everything after feels like a haze to him, the night seeming like he’s looking through smudged camera lenses that only have a clear view of your face and nothing else. 

As you sway back and forth, it turns out neither of you are really dancers. 

Jack does little more than just shuffle and sway, feet barely picking up off of the floor, while you’re over here stepping on his toes, laughing and mumbling apologies in between your shared giggles. He hums along to the song, even if he doesn’t know it, but you think it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard. 

“So this is fun,” you say, after a few bars of the song have passed. He raises an eyebrow, and opens his mouth to speak. “No, that does not mean I like going to these things,” you interject. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack says in a sing-songy way, but leans forward to knock the brim of his hat against your forehead before drawing back again. 

“Don’t read too much into it,” you laugh.

Jack can hear the music start to wind down, the other pairs on the floor slowing down until they’re nearly nothing but soft sways. He leans forward, this time, all the way until your foreheads touch, staring into your wide eyes. His hat gets pushed out of the way until it sits precariously on his head, but his arms stay wrapped around you. He smiles, wide and bright, eyes crinkling in the corners when you smile tentatively, but still oh so full of love, at him. 

“I love you,” he says, voice soft, but unwavering, like there’s never been a truer, sure statement he’s uttered in his life. 

The tentative smile on your face spreads until it’s beaming, making Jack feel warm all the way to his toes. You lean forward, pressing your lips firmly against his, just to get him close to you. Neither of you even notice that people have started to leave the dance floor, a few pairs coming in to replace the empty space, but you two stay where you are, wrapped together. By the time you pull back, a new song has started. You and Jack instinctively start swaying together again, faces flushed with love. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

As if there has never been a truer statement. 


End file.
